Hunting beneath the stars had taught Indis patience.
Patience was good. You waited for the right time to strike, to bring the most effective result with the least amount of risk to oneself, and the most generous outcome.
Long had her eyes strayed to the silver haired beloved of Finwë Ňoldoran but too late the moment she had laid eyes upon the maiden in her gauzy dress of violet blushed to peach, eyes downcast, a silver ring on her fingers threaded through Finwë’s, far too many flashing amethysts and whorls of silver about her neck.
Indis had wanted in that very first glimpse but had been denied by the bonds of matrimony, and the Ňoldoran’s watchful, jealous eyes.
Then Morgoth had been released, and Finwë fell to the Dark One’s treachery; cut down on the road between Tirion and Taniquetil. He had left behind a pregnant wife to struggle in holding kingdom and raising a child at once. Gently Indis had begun her hunt then, surveying the territory first, knowing her prey. Quiet words of reassurance and support moved to light touches morphed into careful embraces finally became holding Míriel’s body to hers, and enjoying the unique position of the Queen’s best friend and occasional lover.
Now, she thought, sipping white meade and hating the layers and layers of heavily embroidered cloth Míriel wore. Now was the time. Now was the time, and she was going to decimate those awful stumpwork samite roses on that dress while she was at it.
Why, why would Míriel wear something like that?
It was AWFUL. Even on the eternally mind boggling scale of Noldor and awful things they loved to do to beautiful embroidery thread, priceless gems, and metals.
“Thank goodness they’ve all gone now,” she said instead of criticising the monstrosity. She had been pleased to find out an influential noble’s wife had made it because she refused to believe Míriel would willingly wear such a thing. Parts of her had broken inside just seeing Míriel emerge wearing the thing along with the jewellery chosen to go with it (too much. Far too much.)
She put down her glass of mead and stood. In contrast to the object-of-her-desire’s over the top grandeur, she was dressed in nothing more than white chiffon, exquisitely pleated by none other than the Regent Queen before her (a technique she refused to share), and a long necklace of silvery pale pearls.
The pearls had been a gift from Olwë to Ingwë. Indis had appropriated them for herself the moment she had seen them. The lustrous colour of them reminded her of Míriel’s hair, and certain devious thoughts had arisen which sent her to bed early, ordering the maids not to disturb her.
Indis ran her fingers through them, feeling their cool smoothness with nary an imperfection. Plain in the eyes of a Noldor, but their exquisiteness was in the perfect selecting of each and every naturally grown pearl, the matching of colour and size. She knew Míriel had noticed and admired them.
(There were Noldor, and then there were Ňoldor. It had taken Indis some time to realise this, this tiny…division in society that an outsider would not notice. There was an invisible line in the sand between being extravagantly tasteless, and possessing extravagant tastefulness; the Noldor were on one side and the Ňoldor on the other. Míriel was Ňoldor, all soft voice, whispering tongue, and use of thorn which had helped Indis settle some of her displacement when she had first arrived in the capital, sent by her brother to aid the ailing Regent in whatever way possible.)
“They were a bit loud today,” Míriel agreed with gentile politeness, eyes on Indis as the princess moved around the low lacquered table and took a seat close to her, on the other side of the chaise the Regent sat upon. Míriel drew her skirts away to make space, and then laughed low and a little rueful when Indis did not bother to hide her disgust at the layers of skirts; the alternating silk flow of marigold and crimson that had come with the monstrosity.
“It is eyewatering, she has yet to figure out colour discretion,” Míriel had to agree to Indis’ silent rebuke as she slid her body closer till their hips touched, “but she is young, newly come to court, and eager. I will take her under my wing, she shows talent.”
Well Indis would admit the stem detailing of the dress was intricate in a way that Míriel might wear. But not the roses.
Never the roses.
“Should I be jealous?” Indis asked, leaning in and touching Míriel’s cheek. Whilst patiently leading Míriel into the trap of her embrace, she had also tightened the snare with her kisses. First light, functional brushes against her cheeks, then lingering, then letting her lips actually press for a moment to skin, and after that slowly edging closer to Míriel’s mouth as the Regent grew more relaxed with her. Grew more fond, and more pliant in Indis’ hands.
Patience. She had learned to let Míriel control the pace, until at last the Regent Queen trusted her to take control.
Now it was nothing to lean in, pressing their lips together, savouring the little quiver that struck Míriel every time at the touch of skin. The Regent Queen was so touch deprived, sometimes Indis’ heart did ache for her, how Míriel had not taken long to lean into Indis’ touch, to savour it but she had never demanded it, used to denial and the loneliness of her life.
But that had been some time ago now. Indis ran her mouth from Míriel’s to the Queen’s ear, nibbling at the edge with a smile as Míriel stifled a giggle at the feeling. Embraces and kisses were easy things now, and Indis drew Míriel eagerly into her arms, returning to that sweet mouth that tasted of the lightly doctored iced tea which Indis’ tendresse enjoyed in the summer months.
Indis ran her hands greedily up the Regent’s body, annoyed at the thickness of the material that distorted the body she was beginning to know quite well now.
Patience had brought Indis to know the feel of the skin beneath that material. She knew where it was sensitive, where she may dare to scrape her teeth, and where she should only kiss lightly.
Indis could not forget the day that Míriel had shyly undone the bodice of her dress, hair loosened and falling around her with nothing but a circlet of silver and sapphires holding it back from her face. They had snuck out of a ball, Míriel tiring of the constant noise, Indis’ head aching from the colours. A gentle embrace had become kissing lightly, had become something rather more and their hands had roamed desperately, Indis smugly revelling in how Míriel no longer seemed to hesitate guiltily.
Perhaps it was time, she had thought then.
Carefully Míriel had parted the stiffened glacier blue silk that wrapped her; the rick dark hue shimmering in the light of Tyelperion with the silver threads shot through it. Slowly it had slid away with the snow white underdress beneath, then a lacy scrap of a bra band had been tugged away to let Indis behold small plump breasts.
The flicker of anxiety in the Queen’s eyes, had told Indis no, it was not time and she had remained light in her touches. She’d not crushed Míriel to her and pressed her back against the wall like she’d wanted. Instead she’d stroked and caressed, lingered at Míriel’s mouth, the movement of her hands unseen by them. This Míriel had preferred for some time, and Indis had denied herself the sight and allowed herself only the sensory pleasure of touch until at last the Queen had drawn her one night into the shadowed, private gardens and let Indis look where she liked.
Patience. Sometimes it was hard for Indis to remember that patience was what was required, that she would only benefit from remaining calm and waiting, observing wisely for her moment.
Patience that night had paid with riches that even Ingwë could not possess.
Now Míriel would let her sneak a hand up her skirts, and let Indis’ fingers stroke the tight dark silver curls there which Indis had spent enough time admiring the first time she had seen them that Míriel had blushed all over. Indis liked to tease, to skirt the tight seam of Míriel’s sex where they both longed the most to touch. And then lightly touch Indis would, stroking, never pressing or pushing, till her fingers could slip inward.
The first time it had happened, a quiet night in Míriel’s bower spend embroidery, Indis had nearly thrown Míriel down right down on the half-finished tunics for Fëanáro, and taken her, ravished her, consumed her.
She’d not. Instead she’d teased Míriel until she trembled, murmuring Indis’ name into the Princess’s shoulder, then she’d brought the Regent Queen of All the Noldor to straddle her thigh, mouth latching onto one of Míriel’s bare breasts. There grinding against the firm muscle with Indis’ fingers assisting, Míriel had come with the same confused delight as a maid just discovering her body, and become lust lazy, body coiled blissfully limp against Indis’ while Míriel’s skilled fingers had learned to reciprocate.
The thought of that night set Indis ablaze.
Now, she thought, now.
Míriel was melting against her now, warm and lazy in her enjoyment. Indis’ hands paused where they had been wrestling up layers of too-bright skirts.
She wanted Míriel’s salt and copper taste on her tongue, she wanted Míriel writhing, clinging to her, fighting her, loving her. Light and gentle would not suffice for much longer, and their play till now had retained a distance, a certain aspect of careful denial on Míriel’s part. Indis wanted this sweet, silver haired Queen to be hers. Ingwe had taken what he wanted and become High King, why shouldn’t Indis follow in her brother’s footsteps?
She surged forward, pushing Míriel back against the chaise’s flush seat and braced her hands on either side of Míriel’s body.
“You light a fire in me,” her voice came out hoarse, her hands no longer searching determinedly but grasping the material and pushing it up instead. “As though you should be as lion hued as Arien and as fearsome,” her hands were revealing in great time the Regent’s plain red slippers, her ankle, that ridiculous diamond linked anklet, the curve of a pale calf, and the lush swell of thighs at last.
“Indis,” Míriel’s voice came out shakily, a pledge or a promise to Indis’ ears though it might have been the precursor to a denial.